


We are all fools in love

by ImogenGotDrunk



Series: Fuck pride timestamps [5]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Apologies, Arguments, Blow Jobs, But he's trying, Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fluff, He's a good bf, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Gavin, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Up, Panic Attacks, RK900 struggles with emotions, Smut, Wall Sex, breaking up, but he conquers his fears, but not really, self-depreciating thoughts, shitty past relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-01 09:44:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16282253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenGotDrunk/pseuds/ImogenGotDrunk
Summary: Gavin doesn’t realise he’s grabbing the nearest breakable object until he’s hurling it at the far wall.Not at R. Never at R. But it’s pretty fucking close.-Gavin and R.K have their first argument.





	1. First argument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title quote from Pride and Prejudice.

In all fucking honestly, he doesn’t even remember what they’re fighting about.

Maybe it’s something to do with the reports, or maybe it’s about which of them screwed up while they were tracking down their perp. Or maybe it's about who gets the credit for actually tracking the asshole down and bringing him in for processing. Shit if he knows anymore. And at this point, Gavin doesn't fucking care.

But he does know that it’s over something petty, and really fucking dumb, and that it’s probably his fault. Not that he’ll give the smug, egotistical son of a bitch standing in front of him, in _his_ apartment, in _his_ fucking kitchen, the satisfaction of backing down and admitting it.

R’s being agonisingly logical, always _so fucking logical_ , and every word out of his goddamn mouth is making Gavin clench his fists tighter and grit his teeth harder.

They’ve never argued before. Not for real, anyway, and not while they’ve been… _them_. In the back of his mind, Gavin acknowledges exactly how much he doesn’t like it, and how very fucking much he’d like it to _stop_.

But it doesn’t stop. Gavin doesn’t stop it, and neither does R. His LED is red and flashing, and it hasn’t done that since Michael Groves’s house, and Gavin knows, he fucking _knows,_ that this isn’t good, and they’ve never. Fucking. Fought. Like _this_. And _this_ has dissolved into something nasty; something far more intense than it ever should have been, and they’re stood across the kitchen from one another and _shouting_ , R’s never _shouted_ before, and aching rage and familiar fear are building in tandem together in Gavin’s chest; building and building and building to boiling point, past it–

–and Gavin doesn’t realise he’s grabbing the nearest breakable thing until he’s hurling it at the far wall. Not at R. Never at R. But it’s pretty fucking close.

The mug shatters against the shitty wallpaper, and the sound finally, _finally_ , cuts through enough to shut R up, and Gavin can't fucking take it anymore.

“Get the fuck out!”

 _Coward_ , a voice bites at him, and it only makes Gavin angrier.

“Get the fuck out of here, I don’t give a shit where you go, just get out of my fucking sight! Get the fuck _out_!”

R’s jaw has grown tight. He glances down at the broken mug, still silent thank fucking God because Gavin knows that if he says one more word, he’ll break another fucking cup.

But R doesn’t say anything. He gives one, stiff nod. Turns and grabs his jacket from the arm of the couch. And then leaves.

The apartment door shuts behind him, loud and echoing and very, very final.

Gavin sinks back against the counter. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s shaking.

He leans there for what must be four, five minutes; staring at the shattered mug and replaying every second of the last half hour in his head, before the panic finally sinks in.

And it sinks in slowly. It always does; a faint thrumming in his skull, at first – _‘you always do this, R, you always fuckin’ do this! You don’t know how to be wrong, do you, it’s all the same with you fuckin’ androids!’_ – and a low, unnerving coiling in his stomach – _‘how would you prefer I react, Gavin, when you dramatize every little thing you don’t like for no plausible fucking reason!’_ – until he’s trembling so hard that having his back against the counter won’t support him anymore, and his breathing is so rapid that he’s light-headed and sliding down to the floor.

There’s no one there to see him this time – _the second fuckin’ panic attack in only so many fuckin’ months, and this one’s R’s fault too, always his fault, always, always, always, I don’t want you, why would I ever want someone like you_ – but Gavin still draws up his knees, wraps his arms around them – _God I need you, I don’t want it to be over, please come back, please, come back_ – and he buries his sobs against his sleeves and tries to breathe – _‘Gavin, focus on me, focus on your breathing. This will pass.’_

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Mia creeps out from beneath one of the chairs, slinks up his legs and into his lap. Gavin knows he’s holding her way too tightly, but she doesn’t complain. Any other time, she’d claw him. Not now, though. She rubs her head against his cheek instead, and Gavin doesn’t fucking deserve her.

It all eases far, far faster than it would without Mia there. But it’s still completely dark by the time he chances a glance at the window. Seven thirty, he sees, when he peers at the clock. His throat feels raw, and his legs are numb from sitting for so long. His chest has lost _most_ of its tightness, though, when he stands shakily to clear the broken mug away so that Mia doesn’t end up hurting herself on one of the shards.

“ _Mrrrow_.”

“I’m not fuckin’ calling him.” Fuck, his voice sounds scraped dry.

He stalks to the door, anger and pride resurfacing now that the last hour or so has passed – it’s ridiculous, Gavin knows how ridiculous it is – and he locks both bolts. It’s petty, he’s so fucking petty, but he wants R to feel as shit as he does. He wants the android to come crawling back, to try the door, and find it _locked_ so that he knows how fucking angry Gavin is. So he feels like as much of a fuck-up as Gavin does right now.

He rests his forehead against the door, and takes another breath.

God, what happened? This morning he’d been in R’s apartment. They’d woken up two hours before they had to head to work; they fucked in the shower, R had made breakfast, and Gavin had been the happiest fucking guy on the planet. R had wanted to make him dinner too, after they were done at the station. Now that he knew he could cook, the guy had developed a fucking obsession – not that Gavin had had any complaints about it. And they were going to have YouTube on autoplay in the background while they probably blew each other on the couch instead of actually watching anything for more than five minutes, and then they’d stay awake until three in the morning talking about whatever. They hadn’t verbally planned it out like that or anything, but it was all pretty much a given at this point.

None of that happens tonight. Gavin tosses a pack of instant noodles in the microwave instead; eats them on the arm of the couch, bare feet on the cushions, with some shitty program on TV. He’d wanted to show R an old horror game walkthrough, just for an excuse to turn off all the lights and have his arms around him. And the noodles are about as shitty as they look. They taste bland, like cardboard, even with all the fake flavouring in there, and he’s never wanted R’s cooking so badly.

Mia fluctuates between coming to perch on Gavin’s knee, and leaving to curl up on R’s old CyberLife jacket in the bedroom.

She’s there, sulking because R _isn’t_ , when Gavin braves the bedroom himself. The sheets are still rumpled from when R stayed over on Wednesday night. Gavin’s finally convinced him to stop making the bed every morning. ‘ _Because_ _It’s my fuckin’ bed, baby, and we’re just gonna mess it up anyway. Leave it alone, you’re such a weirdo.’_

Once Gavin’s shrugged off his shirt, sat down on the mattress, and let the quiet and the loneliness spite him for as long as he can bear, he checks his phone. He wants to see a hundred messages; all of them apologies, declarations of love, pleas for forgiveness. It’s every bit as petty and ridiculous as bolting the front door had been. But he wants it. He wants it so damn bad.

 _Please say you’re sorry, ‘cause I can’t. Say this isn’t over, say we’re not over. Just give me something, I’m too fucking scared to call, please baby, it has to be you_. _One voicemail. Just one fucking message._

  
**INBOX**

**(NO NEW MESSAGES)**

  
Gavin places his phone screen-down on the bedside table. Gently, as though it will explode if he jostles it too hard. He feels that awful pressure building again, welling behind his eyes. He closes them tightly, and pushes his face into the pillow.

“Fuck.”

He _threw_ something. He yelled and he threw something and he made R leave. _Told_ him to leave. He used to fight with Danny like that, all the fucking time, and look how that shitshow of a relationship had ended. How the fuck do you come back from something like this? Gavin had never really learned how to apologise, even when he really fucking wanted to, and Danny had been shitty practice for it. Neither of them had ever apologised for anything, unless you can count hate sex as an apology.

“ _Fuck_.”

He can’t sleep in that fucking room. It’s silent and empty and his cat is sleeping on his boyfrie– on R’s crumpled jacket. Gavin _can’t_ , and that pressure and the loneliness keep amplifying and he needs it all to fucking stop.

He needs Tina. He should call her before he does something stupid. That’d be the mature thing to do, and Gavin knows she’d come over in a heartbeat. But he’s too fucking proud to even pick up his phone again.

He leaves it by the bed. Goes to the kitchen instead, and cleans his fridge out of any remaining beers. Then ploughs through near half a bottle of whisky, blasting music in his living room so loudly that his cunt of a neighbour starts pounding on the wall, even though it’s a Friday. _Fuck. Him._ Gavin can do whatever the fuck he wants _._ And he wants to get drunk and forget that this night never happened. He wants to forget what a fucking coward he is. He wants to forget about R, and how much he wanted to watch horror games with him, and how much he wanted him to make dinner, and his smart fucking mouth, and how much Gavin wants him to say that there’s a chance they’ll still be _them_ after tonight and that everything’s going to be okay.

It was a stupid fight. It was a stupid fucking fight that should never have fucking happened, and Gavin's messed everything up again.

He doesn’t have the heart to take R’s jacket away from Mia, no matter how much he wants it when he all but passes out at three AM in front of the couch. His phone is still in the bedroom, and he couldn’t hear it ring even if it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their first argument and the first time they say 'I love you' (which will be in chapter 2) requested by some lovely Anons on my [tumblr.](https://imogengotdrunk.tumblr.com/)


	2. First 'I love you'

Gavin hasn’t had a hangover so bad in years.

He wakes up at one PM and thinks he’s gone blind when he first opens his eyes; squints at the TV, blinks hard a few times to clear the haziness, and then feels a sharp pain slicing through his head. His neck is cricked to all hell, too. He passed out against the front of the couch, whisky bottle on the table in front of him like some cruel reminder and one side of his face mushed against the cushions. The rest of him is sprawled out over the floor, like a fucking idiot.

And trying to push himself upright is a _big_ fucking mistake. His eyes start watering immediately, and nausea hits him like a gut punch.

“Oh shit– _shit_ –” He presses his eyes closed, hard; doesn’t dare move any further beyond throwing out an arm to steady himself on the coffee table. He bites the threat of bile back as stubbornly as he can manage. And he does manage. Just.

Mia doesn’t help matters. She keeps curling against him, purring; probably thinks she’s being cute, when all she’s really doing is compromising Gavin’s painstaking effort not to throw up all over the carpet.

“ _Mrrrrrrrrrow_.”

“I fuckin’ know you’re hungry, give me a minute.” He doesn’t even have the effort to sound annoyed. All that leaves his mouth is a desperate, breathless rush of words that barely pass for words at all. “Just give a minute.”

The requested minute expands to four, five, six, while the queasiness gradually subsides enough for him to ease himself to his feet. Though by the time he’s staggered his way to the kitchen and wrestled a can of chicken liver open, he’s reeling over the sink; dangerously close to throwing up in there instead of on the living room floor.

His impatient shit of a cat hops up onto the counter and eats her breakfast from there. She eyes Gavin the whole time, chewing greedily while he catches his breath. “The shit I do for you,” he bites out weakly. “You’d better be fuckin’ grateful.”

Once he can manage to reach for a glass, he downs a pint of water, and then stumbles into the shower. He steps right under, and it’s absolutely fucking freezing, but he grits his teeth and stays because he knows from experience that it’s the quickest way to clear his head of the grogginess.

R usually brings him water. R usually takes a shower with him. R never lets him drink enough to feel this shitty the morning after.

The second Gavin’s out of the shower, before he even makes a grab for some clean clothes, he checks his phone.

  
**INBOX**

**(NO NEW MESSAGES)**

  
He puts the phone back down. Pulls on a pair of jeans, some socks, and shrugs one of R’s T-shirts over his head. It’s too tight on him, but fuck it. It’s not the first T-shirt he’s stretched in the last few months.

He tries to regain his balance after he sways in the doorway, hangover far from deciding to be merciful, and then he goes about clearing up the beer bottles and the whiskey.

Then he makes himself the strongest coffee he can without it being ‘too strong’ – _‘You really should watch your caffeine intake, Detective. And you wonder why you crash so early in the afternoon…’_ – and eats five slices of toast in a row just to give his body one thing less to complain about that morning.

Then he goes back into the bedroom, and checks his phone again.

  
**INBOX**

**(NO NEW MESSAGES)**

  
Okay. It’s okay.

He ends up cleaning the entire fucking apartment, just for something else to focus on. Mia stays out of his way as much as she can; both fascinated and annoyed that everything is being put away or moved around all of a sudden, while she watches from various perching spots as Gavin paces from room to room.

It’s five fucking PM by the time he’s finished, and the sun’s setting, and it’s all orange and pinks outside, and his apartment’s cleaner than it’s been in fucking years. The final thing to do is make the bed. Gavin picks up his phone first.

**  
INBOX **

**(NO NEW MESSAGES)**

  
So he makes the fucking bed.

He makes the bed because _fine, R’s right_ , it does look better when it’s made. He makes the bed because if it’s made, maybe R will suddenly appear and see that it’s been made, and he’ll know what it means. He’ll know that it means that Gavin wants him there all the fucking time and that he didn’t want him to leave in the first place even though he fucking _told him to_. He’ll know that Gavin doesn’t want to lose him over a stupid fucking argument that he can’t even fucking remember the beginning of. He’ll know that Gavin’s really, _really_ fucking sorry.

  
**INBOX**

**(NO NEW MESSAGES)**

  
And of fucking course Gavin knows that R’s not going to just magically appear and _know_ what a made bed means. But he wants him to know, so fucking badly. He doesn’t want to break up. He doesn’t want to go to the station on Monday and have to call R his _partner_ because he isn’t sure if he can still call him his _boyfriend_. Jesus, just the idea hurts.

“ _Mrrrow_.” Mia comes to knead her claws into his thigh.

It’s cat language for _get your shit together_ , and Gavin scratches her behind the ear. “Yeah I know. I told you, just give me a fuckin’ minute.”

He doesn’t want to deal with this fallout at the station, or in public at all. The thought of it reminds him way too much of how Danny used to behave after they broke up; bringing their personal shit up in the station, bitching about everything to the other cops not ten goddamn feet away from Gavin’s desk. Neither of them have ever apologised, for the big or the small. Gavin had never had the courage to say the words, and Danny was either too proud or had just never given a shit.

Danny had never really given a shit about him, period. Gavin had always felt like crap after they argued, too, but it’s a different kind of crap now because Danny had never had his back, and R _does_. Danny had never stood up for him, or respected him, or made him laugh so hard he fell off his fucking desk chair in the middle of the bullpen, or let his bitch cat use his favourite jacket as a bed just because it makes her happy, or brought Gavin water when he was hungover, or–

**Gavin**  
I dont wanna lose you. Im sorry.

  
Gavin frowns down at his phone, scrutinising the cliché and uninspiring words as though they’re evidence at a crime scene. He _doesn’t_ want to lose R, and he _is_ sorry, so surely that’s good enough. It’s quick and it gets the message across, and he’s about to hit send when his thumb freezes. He hesitates; it’s what he always fucking does, but this time something in his brain is definitively telling him _no_.

 _Just, fucking no._ He owes R better than a shitty, seven-word text.

So Gavin deletes the message. Runs a hand through his hair and mutters a string of curses; makes a shaky attempt at taking deep, steadying breaths, and then hits CALL instead. The fear sets in the second he brings the phone up to his ear and he hears the dial tone, and he knows that this might not amount to anything more than a hang-up. But he’s fucking doing it now, because this is fucking important. _R’s_ fucking important.

Gavin’s gripping the bedsheet so hard that his knuckles are white, when there’s finally an answer on the other end.

“…Gavin?”

The hint of uncertainty in R’s voice doesn’t come as a surprise. Gavin never calls anyone if he can avoid it. _This is fucking important_ , he reminds himself firmly, and he forces himself to speak before the silence spans embarrassingly long. “Uh, yeah. It’s me. Hey.”

The best he can do is _yeah,_ _it’s me,_ _hey_. Gavin’s a fucking moron.

“Hello.”

“Hi. Hey.”

There’s an amused pause, and then when R speaks again, Gavin’s never been so relieved to hear that shitty, teasing tone in his life. “Well, now that that’s out of the way. How… are you? Is everything all right?”

Jesus fucking Christ he sounds so unsure, like he doesn’t know whether the question’s welcome or not. Gavin goes to say _fine_ on instinct, but that would be a barefaced fucking lie. So the only thing that’s left is the truth, however pathetic it is. “Woke up with the worst fuckin’ hangover ever, cleaned my whole apartment, and my fuckin’ boyfriend isn’t even here to appreciate it. So no, it’s not.”

“And I suppose,” R responds instantly, tone all of a sudden icy and defensive, and that’s exactly how all this shit last night  _started_ , and Gavin feels panic surge in his chest, “you believe that’s my fault?”

“No. _Fuck_ , no.”

_Say it. Just say the goddamn words, and it might be enough to actually give you another chance not to fuck up the best thing that’s ever fucking happened to you._

“It’s mine, it’s a hundred-percent mine, and I know that, I just–” Gavin stops, forces himself not to hide behind excuses. _Just tell the fucking truth_. “I shouldn’t have told you to leave, I really fuckin’ regret it. A-And I shouldn’t have started shouting or– or thrown anythin’, that was so fucked up. I was just really angry and I get stupid when I’m angry, and I’m–” Gavin stops again, clears his throat. Takes another breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t give a fuck about whatever we were fighting about, I don’t even fuckin’ remember anymore. I’m so sorry, baby, I’m just… I’m sorry, and I… I don’t wanna lose you over this.”

There’s silence again. Mia’s tail flicks a few times against his forearm while unease lurches in Gavin’s stomach; violent at first, and then simmering anxiously. But he’s fucking said it now, and he’ll damn well be braver for a little while longer and suck up whatever R’s reply ends up being, even if all he says is that he never wants to see Gavin again.

_Please don’t let it be that. Fuck, just let it be anything other than that._

“I had… feared you were calling to terminate our relationship. You don’t usually call, and I just… assumed.”

Holy shit– “ _No_ , no fuckin’ way do I want that–”

“That is fortunate, then, because I… I’m actually in the corridor, and I imagine that conversation would have been even more awkward than this one.”

Gavin’s gaze darts instinctively to the open bedroom door, through to the kitchen. “You’re–?”

“Yes. I hadn’t heard from you all day, and I know you tend to veer towards self-destruction following an argument, as seems to be the case with most humans,” Gavin’s moving for the front door while R explains, unbolting the latches when he gets there – he forgot he’d locked them last night, and if that doesn’t just make him the world’s shittiest person, “and it may have been presumptuous, but I wanted to check in and–”

R apparently reaches the door just as Gavin wrenches it open, because he’s standing on the other side, hair mussed from the wind because the adrenaline junkie fucker never wears his helmet. And a bag from one of Gavin’s favourite takeouts is in his hand, because R’s always made the effort to _know_ shit like that.

“–and perhaps bring dinner,” R finishes in person, holding the bag up slightly, and looking as close to sheepish as he ever possibly could. “As a poor attempt to apologise for my behaviour last night.”

Gavin couldn’t, in a thousand fucking lifetimes, love someone more.

He takes R’s free hand, drags him into the apartment and into a kiss before he can say another word. _Don’t pull away, please don’t fucking pull away_. Gavin doesn’t want him to apologise; these twelve shitheap hours weren’t his fault. Gavin doesn’t want him to say anything else, because the only thing they should be talking about is how very fucking important it is that they never repeat last night, ever again.

The takeout bag drops into the floor, and Gavin makes a sound he’s not proud of when he feels R’s fingers comb through his hair, because it’s familiar. It’s normal. It’s _them_. And it makes Gavin brave enough to say the words aloud again – and it _does_ fucking count, even if it’s muffled and pressed against R’s lips.

“I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry–”

“Gavin–”

“No, I’m sorry, all right, and I–” He starts laughing, feels R smile in response because one of them kicks the door closed, and the sound of it is a hell of a lot sweeter than it was last night, because this time it means R’s _staying._ “I’m sorry I asked you to go, I didn’t wanna fight anymore and I didn’t know–” He’s still laughing, breathless as he scrabbles pull R’s jacket off his shoulders, “I got so fuckin’ drunk, had music on way too fuckin’ loud last night, I’m gonna get a noise complaint from my neighbour, he’s such a fuckin’ asshole.”

Gavin has no idea why he’s saying _that_ , of all the random things, but his relief is making him delirious, and it’s okay, it doesn’t matter anyway, because R’s chuckling and lifting Gavin’s chin and pushing their mouths together again, and it’s so, _so_ much better than talking. Or whatever the hell Gavin was just trying to do, he doesn’t give a shit, not about anything. Not when R’s hands are framing his face, and they’re not breaking up, there’s no way they’d be kissing like this if they were breaking up, _thank fucking God_ , and Gavin’s always been far more comfortable _doing_ rather than talking, and R knows that because he knows _Gavin_.

He swears it takes no more than two fucking seconds until they’re in the bedroom, because of course R knows the fastest way there; and so he should, he’s practically lived here for months and Gavin’s not letting him leave, not ever again, and especially not now he knows how it feels to be pushed down onto a made bed and have his wrists pinned above his head, _holy fuck_.

“I’m sorry,” Gavin says again between kisses, because now that he’s said it once, he can’t seem to stop. And R switches suddenly from holding down his hands to threading their fingers together, and it makes him want to fucking cry, and he probably would if he wasn’t writhing under R’s weight and getting hard against his thigh. “I’m so sorry, baby–”

“I know–”

“I’m sorry–”

“Stop apologising. I hear you,” R cuts him off, and even though it’s mostly a way to get Gavin to shut the fuck up already, he also knows what it really means. _I hear you, I accept your apology, I accept you._ Only R could make five simple words so fucking complex.

R loosens him, just because he starts struggling properly, and Gavin sits up to grasp desperately at his shirt. Always with the fitted fucking button-downs, just fucking _why_. Yeah they’re sexy, but they make everything _slower_ , and it’s only proven when R drags Gavin’s shirt up and off in one, easy motion while Gavin’s still scrambling at the buttons.

“We gotta talk about these fuckin’ shirts,” Gavin mutters, and it makes R grin. _He_ makes R grin; something that no one else, not even Connor, has ever been able to do, and the sight of it is so much more satisfying than throwing a cup at the wall, what the _fuck_ had Gavin been thinking.

R manages to shrug the shirt off one shoulder, though as soon as it’s open Gavin pushes him backwards, until he’s laid on his back and Gavin’s shifting between his legs, leaning down to press his teeth into R’s neck; pulling hard at the skin and sinking them deeper as he travels downwards, rubbing a thumb over one nipple and teasing the other with his mouth until he feels R arch up against his stomach and those fingers grip tightly in his hair, and it all has Gavin rutting against the front of his jeans. He fucking wishes that androids could bruise, wishes he could leave marks all over R’s skin, because it’s never been _this_ way round before. R’s never let up that careful control, and it makes him giddy; feeling R’s thighs curve around his, and his hips moving urgently under Gavin’s weight, all with the impression of being unable to escape, even though Gavin’s knows without a doubt that he could.

Gavin fights with the front of R’s jeans for a moment, not willing to stop long enough to look down at what he’s actually doing, and eventually he gets a hand around him. R must have his sensors turned way up, because as soon as Gavin touches him, he _groans_.

He must get four, five strokes in before R snatches his wrist and pulls just enough to roll them over, and Gavin knew that couldn’t last; R’s not ready to surrender control completely, and that’s fine, it’s totally fucking fine, because he’s sliding his thumbs under the waistline of Gavin’s pants and slipping them down, off, and then his lips are closing around the head of Gavin’s cock, and it’s fucking _filthy_ the way his tongue curls around him when he meets Gavin’s eyes and _smiles_.

“Fuckin’ psycho,” Gavin gasps out, shuddering as R takes him down and swallows around him, sucks all the way back up, and Gavin knows he could come right fucking now if he wasn’t so stubborn, “You know where the fuckin’ lube is, c’ _mon_ –”

And R must be in a real fucking hurry because the bottle slips from his fingers and onto the floor, and he curses, fumbles for it, and Gavin’s never seen him like this; wrecked and frustrated and swearing and _impatient_ , and it’s fucking amazing. The hot, wet slide of R’s mouth takes him in again, and two slick fingers press into him, all the fucking way, and _fuck_ it hurts, but R _knows him_ ; knows what he wants; knows not to apologise or pull away and to keep running his tongue along the length of him, and it has something low and deep Gavin’s stomach coiling with an almost unbearable heat.

Gavin pushes into the slow, shallow thrusts of his fingers, face turned sideways and panting into the sheets, and R doesn’t let up even when he kicks of his own pants, the multitasking android bastard. Though he does let Gavin slip from his mouth seconds later, and its lewd and fucking sinful and Gavin’s leaking against his own stomach and writhing to get that friction back, “Baby, please, _c’mon_ –”

R leans forward, “Open your legs for me,” and crawls between them; bites his teeth into Gavin’s neck and _sucks_ while he pushes into him, _holy shit, holy fucking shit,_ and Gavin can’t think beyond curling his fingers desperately into R’s shoulders and curving his legs around him.

But despite the clear urgency, it’s not _fast_. R rocks into him in long, rhythmic strokes; holding Gavin down against the mattress, and it has Gavin choking out broken, needy sounds with every rough thrust of R’s hips. It feels like a fucking apology, and Gavin tries to find leverage; tries to pull with his legs to meet R’s movements, but the android just pushes harder, slips his tongue between Gavin’s lips until he’s moaning around it and can’t do anything more than just _let_ himself be fucked.

Apparently R still doesn’t consider it enough; Gavin knows no one would believe it, but it’s R who’s always been the fucking hornier one of the two of them, and when he feels his hands – sure and firm, fingertips pressing into his flesh just enough for Gavin to really feel it – slide from his hips to bracket his thighs, Gavin fucking knows what he’s doing a split second before it happens.

And R looks fit, sure, but it’s all slender muscle and agile limbs rather than brute strength, so he should _not_ be able to hoist all hundred-and-seventy-pounds of Gavin up with so much ease and cage him against the fucking wall. But he does, effortlessly, and he’s still inside him, and Gavin didn’t think it was possible to get harder at this point but here they fucking are. Fucking against a wall, and God, if Gavin hasn’t thought about _this_ before. Way, way too many times for this to last as long as it he wants it to.

The next thrust has them both straining against each other, and R has one hand braced on the wall beside Gavin’s head, the other under Gavin’s thigh, and they lock eyes as R pushes harder, and the fucking _rightness_ of it all hits Gavin, sudden and deep, in his chest. He grinds back against him, shameless because he’s being slammed against a fucking wall and his legs are trembling around R’s hips and R’s pressing his gasps into the crook of Gavin’s throat.

It takes nothing more than another hard thrust, and R’s fingers _digging_ into his hip, and Gavin’s coming untouched between them, harder than ever before in his fucking life; hands clutched on R’s shoulders, hips squirming against R’s skin, and he’s clenching so hard around him that he feels R shove himself against him as he comes too, buried deep inside him, and it’s a fucking miracle there’s not a goddamn Gavin-shaped dent in the wall when he finally, _finally_ starts to come down.

Gavin thanks whoever for android stamina, because his legs are done and R’s the only thing keeping him from sagging to the side and toppling onto the floor. But R’s arms stay firmly beneath him, and they breathe there for a moment; Gavin’s raw and rough, and R’s no fucking less so, which is ridiculous because he doesn’t even _need_ to breathe.

Eventually, R pries them away from the wall and collapses backwards, bringing Gavin with him onto the bed. Gavin’s brain is still too fuzzy to even register the movement. He just slumps down against him, huffs a thoroughly fucked-out laugh against his neck; arms still wrapped around R’s shoulders, legs still entangled together, and Mia hisses at them both from the windowsill for ignoring her.

“I’m sorry, too, for the record.” R’s voice is wrecked, and Gavin could get drunk on it a hundred times faster than any brand of whiskey. But there’s a hint of teasing there too. Gavin manages to open his eyes and raise his head to the sight of the android’s shitty, gorgeous smirk. “I know how much you liked that cup.”

Gavin grins against his lips; takes the bottom between his teeth and buries his fingers in R’s hair. “Fuckin’ smartass.”

***

He gets a call from the landlord at seven PM, and finds out his asshole neighbour did send a noise complaint. Though whether it’s about the music the other night, or about R nearly fucking him through the wall, Gavin doesn’t know. And he doesn’t give two shits.

He throws on a pair of sweatpants to re-heat the Chinese food R brought over – _‘No, baby, reheating food isn’t gonna kill me, I do it all the fuckin’ time’_ – and they watch an old playthrough of Outlast late into the evening. Because if dim sum, jumpscares and graphic violence following the best make-up sex of his life doesn’t say romance, then Gavin doesn’t know what the fuck does.

“So this journalist has just seen a rather extensive trail of blood in the corridor, and has now proceeded to crawl through a vent to travel further into the building.”

“Yeah.”

The unimpressed pause spans for several seconds. “Why?”

“‘Cause he’s a horror game character. All of ‘em are fuckin’ moro– _Jesus fuck_ , fuck this game!”

Gavin drops a dumpling onto the sheets because the library jumpscare _still_ fucking gets him, even though he’s watched this playthrough three or four times now in the last twenty years. And his smug bastard of a boyfriend smiles when Gavin flinches. Apparently he finds a perfectly normal reaction to seeing a dead fucking body swinging in a doorway _amusing_ , and he himself isn’t scared at all; thinks the reporter’s an imbecile, in fact, for even going inside the asylum in the first place. He’s not wrong, but Gavin isn’t about to spoil the rest of the game by admitting it.

It’s a small mercy that they’re watching it on the laptop instead of the wide screen TV. It was near the bed anyway, and neither of them wanted to move again after Gavin grabbed dinner, so they’re staying there; pillows and covers piled around them, the lights off, and Mia curled between Gavin’s elbow and R’s hip.

“I have another question.”

Gavin scoops up the fallen dumpling, probably covered in cat hair but fuck it, and takes a large bite. “Of course you fuckin’ do, you _always_ do.”

“Is this journalist not going to retrieve a weapon of any kind? Surely, if confronted with several decapitated bodies and a man dying on a spike, you’d seek some measure of defence besides merely hiding or running away.”

“That’s not the point, dumbass. It’s scary _because_ the player can’t fight back. Give him a weapon and half the fuckin’ tension drops.”

R tilts his head, LED flickering yellow for a few seconds while he considers it.  “I see,” he concedes. “I suppose there is a certain fear to having no means with which to protect oneself.”

Gavin shovels another fork-full of food into his mouth, and waits for the inevitable ‘although’.

“Although,” there it fucking is, “he did just pass by several dozen military corpses. You’d imagine that _one_ of them would have, say, a gun and some ammo that they were no longer using.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“For an investigative journalist, he’s thoroughly lacking in basic observational skills–”

“Just let it go, babe,” Gavin chuckles, angling his head to press a kiss against the side of R’s jaw. It shuts him up, and it probably will until the next unrealistic plot point appears, ready and awaiting R’s wrath. Gavin shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re such a fuckin’ critic,” he adds, reaching blindly for R’s hand and pulling until his arm encircles Gavin’s waist. “Something could make perfect fuckin’ sense and you’d still find somethin’ wrong with it.”

“And something could make no sense at all, and yet you would not be bothered by it.”

“It’s called bein’ tolerant, shitbird. Look it up.”

“On the contrary, I believe it’s called being blasé. A word that applies to you in a great deal of situations.”

“ _Oh, blasé_ ,” Gavin mocks, making sure to adopt the shittiest British accent he can manage. “Bla-fuckin’-sé. Shut the fuck up, you prude.”

R hides what was probably a very elegant snort in Gavin’s hair, and Gavin grins for maybe the tenth or hundredth time that day, he doesn’t fucking know. He keeps thinking, whenever him and R are together like this – doing fuck-all besides talking and fucking and watching shitty videos with Mia sprawled between them – that he’s never been fucking happier than he is right now. And every fucking time, it’s true.

Sure, he used to think that all the time with Danny, but it was never like this. He knows, now at least, that it was never _real_ ; never anything more than a piss poor illusion of happiness that actually turned out to be anything but.

“The camera is his next issue,” R remarks. “Why would any respectable battery only last a maximum of five minutes? It’s ludicrous.”

“Just can’t leave it alone, can you. Y’know, I’m startin’ to think you enjoy tearing the shit out of all my favourite things.”

“Yes, I do wonder why you put up with me.”

Gavin glances sideways at him, and he doesn’t know exactly what does it. Probably those three dumb, pointless freckles along the side of his jaw, or the reassuring blue of his LED, or how fucking messy his hair is, but whatever it was, it’s _now_. It’s fucking _now_ , out of all the tiny, insignificant moments they’ve had up until, that he suddenly has to buck the fuck up and say it.

“‘Cause I love you. Even if you are a fuckin’ killjoy.”

He doesn’t look at him when he says it. Doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. He stares staunchly at the laptop screen instead, and knows that his whole body’s tensed up. He’s probably gripping R’s fingers way too fucking hard, too, but the last time he’d said those three words out loud was an absolute fucking disaster. And considering that he’d thought he wouldn’t ever say them again, he thinks it’s all pretty fucking justified.

R’s totally still and totally fucking silent beside him, and Gavin can see the red glow of his LED in the corner of his eye, and he hopes to hell that he didn’t struggle through that whole morning just to have his dumb fucking mouth ruin everything again now.

“Don’t let it go to your fuckin’ head,” Gavin warns, because the silence has gone on for too long, and apparently he’s still a bastard even when he’s on the verge of a breakdown. “And don’t think that it means–”

“I love you, as well.” R’s lips press against his shoulder, LED back to that calm, reassuring blue. “Rather a lot, actually.”

And Gavin feels like he can breathe properly for the first time in _months._

“Cool,” he says, like the most uncool person ever, and R generously ignores the way the word breaks off in Gavin’s throat. “I mean, I wouldn’t say ‘a lot’ _,_ y’know. You suck the fun out of everything, and you’re still completely fuckin’ unbearable most of the time, so. I think ‘a lot’ is pushin’ it.”

“Indeed.” R runs his thumb over his knuckles, and doesn’t believe a fucking word Gavin’s saying any more than Gavin himself does. “Now shut the fuck up, if you would,” the android continues, though his arms have definitely tightened around him, and his mouth is still pressed against Gavin’s bare skin. “This journalist is, for some incomprehensible reason, about to go down into the basement. I want to see his reaction when he meets his inevitable and idiotic demise.”

Gavin chokes out a laugh, and drops his head sideways until it’s resting against R’s. He wants to say it again; feels another surge of bravery and thinks he might be able to, but it becomes stuck before any kind of sound can form.

 _It’s okay_ , he tells himself, as Mia nudges her head beneath his hand. _Baby steps._ He’s said it, and even just once, he can be fucking proud of that. _Baby fucking steps._

It’s okay. _They’re_ okay.

Everything’s going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that a hint of Gavin self-acceptance? You bet! Who knew that was a thing that could happen.
> 
> And if any of you watched Outlast when it first came out and was The Big New Horror Game on YouTube, then you know the library jumpscare.


End file.
